


Monotransitive

by Siria



Series: After the Other [5]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-26
Updated: 2007-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They spend most of their days in low-key arguments; pitched battles over whether the Fourth Doctor could take the Ninth, a slow-burning war of attrition as to who gets the pleasurable task of clearing out George's litter box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monotransitive

**Author's Note:**

> For nacbrie, who stumbled across [John's CV online](http://www.freewebs.com/tcd-sheppard/). ;) With thanks to Cate for fixing what was broken.

They spend most of their days in low-key arguments; pitched battles over whether the Fourth Doctor could take the Ninth, a slow-burning war of attrition as to who gets the pleasurable task of clearing out George's litter box. Jeannie calls it bickering and thinks it's cute, laughing behind her hand when she finds the Post It notes John left stuck to the door of the fridge. "You two fight about the proper way to build a lightsaber?" she says, deciphering John's rounded scrawl, "God, you are such geeks."

"Shut up," Rodney says, scowling and snatching the piece of paper from her hand. "It's just an abstract example of a physics problem that we were--"

"You're lucky it is cute, you know," Jeannie says, ignoring him, and reaches up to pat him on the cheek, "because jesus, the two of you would fight for Ireland."

A couple of nights later, Rodney's wondering if maybe Jeannie mightn't be on to something after all, when they hit half an hour of lying in bed and flicking back and forth between Prime Time (Rodney has a thing for Miriam O'Callaghan) and a repeat of an All Ireland hurling final from the 1970s on TG4.

The fifth time John flicks the channel over, Rodney tries to wrestle him for the remote control. "It's not like you haven't known how it ends for the past thirty years or anything," he says, skimming one hand up under John's t-shirt, hoping to distract him with some tactical tickling, "and the commentary's in Irish for Christ's sake, it's not like you can understand it anyway."

"I can speak Irish," John says, scrunching up his eyebrows like he always does when he's irritated.

"Yeah," Rodney says, starting to get distracted by all the smooth, hot skin under his palm, "You mean you suffered through Peig in school with the rest of us, and you've got the cúpla focail just like everyone else to prove it. I don't see how teasing tourists with--"

"Raised in Connemara," John cuts him off, "When I say I can speak it, I mean I can actually speak Irish. Are you telling me with that big brain of yours, you never learned?"

Rodney sniffs, stroking a thumb against the curve of John's ribs. "What's the point? A dying language with no scientific uses, not to mention the fact that it's incredibly boring." Rodney suppresses a shudder at the thought of the long, grey January afternoons he spent in Mrs Murphy's class, trapped in the front row right beneath her gimlet eye so that he couldn't even take refuge in physics equations while the rest of the class was slowly and painfully working their way through noun declensions.

The corners of John's eyes crinkle up, like they always do when he's trying very hard not to laugh at Rodney. "Maybe you didn't have the right teacher," he says. "Irish can be fun." Rodney huffs out a disbelieving laugh at that, but John just quirks an eyebrow and says "See? Fun."

"Right," Rodney says, "and I'm..." His words trail away as John leans down to kiss him, mouth intimate and wet against Rodney's own. By the time he pulls away, Rodney's panting lightly and his pupils are blown, his hips starting to rock up against John's.

"Bet it could be lots of fun," John murmurs, gaze still fixed on Rodney's mouth, "teaching you."

"Hmm?" Rodney says, because he lost his thread of thought ages ago, back when John's mouth was still pressed against his. "What?"

But John ignores him, wriggling down a little against Rodney's body and kissing Rodney's neck before he says "Nominative, ainmneach, to name things. Muineál, neck." Rodney jerks in surprise, but John keeps going. "Gualainn"; a stinging bite to the soft skin of Rodney's shoulder. "Cliabh", he murmurs when he pushes Rodney's t-shirt up and off, and starts to lick his way down Rodney's chest.

Rodney bites his lip and gasps and pushes into John's touch, into the way John is running his hands over Rodney's skin, body already thrumming with desire and anticipation. "See," John continues in that same conversational tone of voice, though Rodney can hear his voice getting thicker, as if his throat's tight with something unnameable, "with naming comes possession. Belonging." He strokes his hands down over Rodney's stomach, the calluses on his palms catching on the soft skin while he says "Do chraiceann, your skin. Mo chraiceann, mine," and he punctuates his words with nipping bites at Rodney's hipbone.

Rodney arches up, wanting more, wanting John to move just that little bit to the left, to touch his cock which already seems so painfully hard; but John pulls back, grinning. He runs one hand down Rodney's thigh (muscles shivering with motion stilled), cocks his head and says "Tense."

Rodney nods fervently, because yes, absolutely he's tense, and he wants in ways he never knew were possible before he met John, in ways he never felt before the first time they kissed, awkward and chilled with rain and curling into one another on Westmoreland Street past midnight. "Yes," he says, "yes, yes, god, John."

But that's not what John means at all; he leans back in, down, until his mouth is almost, almost touching Rodney's and says "An Modh Coinníollach. The conditional tense. Remember that, Rodney? Dá ndúilfeá mo bhod..." John scrapes his fingernails over Rodney's belly, making him shiver, before pushing his own boxers down with one hand, wrapping the fingers of his other hand around his cock, which is hard and already leaking against his stomach.

Rodney groans, part frustration and part need to come already, trying desperately to recall a vocabulary that's long since vanished into two decades of indifference.

"If, if..."

John's smile is dangerous, tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip. "If you suck my cock..." he prompts, pumping his fist around his cock just once, almost lazily.

"Oh my god," Rodney says, squeezing his eyes shut in a desperate attempt not to come just at that, at the promise and the wickedness in John's eyes, at the sight of John naked and smiling and Christ almighty, Rodney thinks, he's still wearing his glasses.

"Ligfidh mé thú..." John continues, leaning down.

Rodney has to force himself to think; they're pressed together now, chest to belly to thigh, and the way John is rubbing their cocks together through the thin cotton of Rodney's boxers is just, it's, god, and his skin feels too hot, too tight all over. "You, you will let me..."

John scrapes his jaw against Rodney, rough stubble and a hint of tongue flickering against the lobe of Rodney's ear. "Isteach."

Oh god, Rodney thinks, god, Jesus, John. "Inside," he pants, "you want me inside."

"Sea," John says, "Yeah," rutting slowly against the thick muscle of Rodney's thigh, smile lingering in the corner of his mouth when he says "Now you got it". And Rodney does get it, he does, knows just what John's trying to say; and later, when John's eyes are fluttering closed and he's coming, moaning; when Rodney works himself deep into the tight heat of John's body and John's nails are digging into the smooth skin of Rodney's back, they're speaking words only the two of them will ever know.

* * *

Níl Gaeilge ar mo thoil agam, agus táim as cleachtadh; tá brón orm as ucht na dearmhaid a rinne mé gan dabht. Agus sea, tá náire orm :"&gt;


End file.
